Crimson Worlds: 08 - Even Legends Die

by Jay Allan

  “The economy is completely unraveling. For no apparent reason. All financial markets are at a standstill. There are no buyers for any asset classes. The effective market value of all financial instruments is zero.” Oliver’s voice was loud, but shaky and hoarse. He had no idea what was going on or what to do about it, that much was clear to Warren. The Alliance’s president was a bully at heart, and he didn’t function well when he felt out of control. “Do you understand the implications of this? We have no idea what is causing the crisis. None at all! I need to know what is going on, and I need to know now!”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Warren wasn’t sure how many ways he could say the same thing. His people had no idea what was causing the economic crisis. The more time he could spend working on the problem instead of sitting there as the president’s punching bag, the sooner he would be able to uncover some real information. But he reminded himself again he had to tread carefully. Oliver was extremely dangerous in his current unpredictable state of mind. Gavin Stark had easily handled the president, but Warren didn’t presume that he was a match for his old boss. He was still struggling to consolidate control and keep the agency operating…and Francis Oliver had buried his own share of bodies in almost 30 years of uninterrupted rule. “With your permission, sir, I will get back to headquarters and put together an updated report for you.”

  Headquarters…that’s a joke, Warren thought. Alliance Intelligence’s HQ was a radioactive pit, and he had people scattered all over the government zone, occupying surplus offices and hotel suites. Most of the agency’s top experts were dead, their ashes lying in the wreckage of their obliterated building. Warren had been forced to round up replacements from stations all over the world. He’d managed to build a respectable second string in Washbalt but at the cost of gutting efficiency elsewhere. It would be years before Alliance Intelligence matched its former capabilities. It was hardly an ideal situation for an agency accustomed to being the best in the world and working from a highly secure, fortress-like building.

  “Yes, I want you to stay on top of your people.” Oliver’s chair creaked slightly as he leaned back and took a deep breath. “I must have information as soon as possible, Mr. Warren.” He stared at the spy with a withering intensity. “I’ll expect you at 6pm with an update.”

  “Yes sir.” Warren turned and walked through the door into the outer office. What an ass, he thought…what miracle does he expect me to come up with in five hours?

  “Sir, we have received a Code 3 transmission for you. It is in your private encryption and marked extremely urgent.” Campbell’s voice was loud in Vance’s earpiece. He reached up and tapped the comlink, lowering the volume slightly.

  “Send it to me here, Captain.” What now, he thought, leaning back and rolling his aching neck around on his shoulders…what else could go wrong?

  “Yes, sir. At your station.”

  Vance slid his hand into his pocket and retrieved a small data crystal, slipping it into the port on the table next to the embedded ‘pad. It contained the decryption codes for his own data protection protocol. The screen danced around wildly for a few seconds as the algorithm worked on the message, turning it from an impossible jumble into concise, readable text. When it had finished, a short note appeared on the otherwise black screen.

  Mr. Vance:

  As a result of our continuing efforts to review raw intelligence files forwarded to us by CAC C1, we have discovered the following.

  Alliance Intelligence Number One, Gavin Stark had several interactions with Number Three, Alexandra Linden approximately two months ago. Until we discovered this surveillance report, Ms. Linden’s whereabouts had been unknown for several years, and we considered her to be missing in action.

  After a complete review of all available intelligence data, we feel reasonably confident that Gavin Stark sent Ms. Linden back to the planet Armstrong with orders to assassinate Alliance General Erik Cain.

  We cannot be certain about this analysis. There is a large period of time prior to these interactions for which Ms. Linden’s whereabouts and activities are still unknown. However, we have assigned the highest confidence level to our conclusion. It is extremely likely that General Cain is currently the target of an Alliance Intelligence assassination warrant.

  I have taken no action and await your instructions on this matter.

  - Simonsen, Lance, Deputy Director Martian Intelligence

  Vance felt his blood run cold as he read the communique. By the time he reached the end, he had no doubts. The analysis was correct. He knew he had to do something. Things were going very badly out in the colonies. Stark’s Shadow Legion troops had already sewn up most of the important Alliance colony worlds. The Marines were heavily outnumbered everywhere, unable even to deploy forces to most of the occupied planets.

  Vance had planned to dispatch Confederation troops to support the Alliance forces, but the crisis on Earth made that problematic. If Alliance Gov thought the Confederation was moving against its colonies, no amount of diplomacy would prevent all-out war. He reluctantly put a hold on sending the troops.

  Vance sighed hard. He had to do something. The loss of Erik Cain on top of everything else would be devastating. Cain was almost certainly the greatest ground tactician in human space. He was irreplaceable…and his brilliance was crucial if Gavin Stark’s plans were to be defeated. If Stark managed to take out Cain, he’d be halfway to victory with nothing but an assassin’s bullet.

  He had to get a warning to the Alliance general. His hands curled up into fists, and he slammed them down on the table in frustration. He was already late. Maybe too late.

  He hit the comlink. “Captain Campbell, I need you in here immediately.”

  The door slid open almost at once, and Campbell came stomping in. “Yes sir,” he rattled off as he hurtled through the door.

  “We need to get a message to Armstrong right away.”

  Campbell paused for a few seconds, thinking. “We don’t have access to the Alliance’s Commnet system, sir. They locked us out after the Dakota attack.”

  “It’d be too unreliable anyway. We don’t even know if the station in Armstrong’s system is still functioning.” Vance rose slowly. “But we’ve got a Torch in the landing bay, and it can reach Armstrong in less than a week with a good pilot pushing it to the limit.” He looked up at John Carter’s skipper.

  Campbell didn’t say anything, but a doubtful expression crossed his face. He had a feeling he knew what Vance was going to ask…and there was no way Campbell could refuse. But a week was almost impossibly fast for a trip to Armstrong.

  “Yes, I know it’s a tight timetable.” Vance seemed to anticipate Campbell’s concern. “But this is urgent. Which is why I need to send the best pilot I’ve got.” Vance was staring right into Campbell’s eyes.

  John Carter’s captain looked back, final realization kicking in. “You want me to go, sir?”

  “I know this seems like a job below your pay grade, Duncan.” The tension in Vance’s voice told Campbell that wasn’t the case. Whatever it was, if it had Roderick Vance this edgy, it was probably downright critical. “But this is extremely important. I’d go myself if I could get away from the crisis here. But then I’m not half the pilot you are.”

  “Of course, Mr. Vance. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” Campbell didn’t like the idea of leaving his command in time of crisis to play messenger, but if Roderick Vance said it was important, it was a good bet it was a six-alarm emergency. “I’ll leave immediately, sir. What do you want me to do?”

  “You need to get to Armstrong and find General Erik Cain.” Vance spoke grimly, uncharacteristic fear creeping into his voice. “No matter what it takes, Duncan.” He stood up behind his desk. “And you need to tell him that Gavin Stark has sent one of his very best assassins to kill him.” He paused, eyes fixed on Campbell’s. “Her name is Alexandra Linden.”

  Chapter 6

  Base Omega

  Asteroid Belt

&n
bsp; Altair System

  Gavin Stark was livid, his anger almost beyond the considerable capacity of his own iron will to control. Fucking Roderick Vance, he thought, his clenched fist slamming down on the table. It was bad enough the interfering Martian spy had identified the hidden base in the Dakotas, but the son of a bitch had actually launched a massive nuclear attack from orbit and completely destroyed it.

  Stark had always known Vance was a capable and dangerous enemy, but he’d still allowed himself to be surprised by the Martian’s audacity. He’d always considered Vance to be a genius, but he’d never imagined the Martian spy had balls enough to pull something like this. He was angry at his own failure to consider just how far Vance was prepared go, and he resolved never to underestimate one of his enemies again.

  Stark had known he had a limited amount of time before the Alliance moved forces into the Dakotas to investigate. Vance had undoubtedly provided Alliance Gov with the intel his commandoes had collected during their raid. But Stark had given the inbred hacks who ran the Alliance other things to think about…including a nuclear detonation right in the center of the capital.

  He had counted on the bombing of Alliance Intelligence HQ to scare the shit out of the politicians…and buy him time to relocate the most vital resources from Facility Q before they sent their forces in and shut it all down. He knew the Alliance bureaucrats, and he’d been sure they would be more worried about bombs taking out their own buildings than seriously addressing alarmist rants from the Confederation’s top spy. He realized that wouldn’t give him unlimited time. He knew he wouldn’t get all his clones out of there, but he’d figured on getting some…and the most vital production equipment as well. Now it was a total loss. He had battle-ready forces deployed in half a dozen remote bases hidden around the globe, but Facility Q was the heart of the Earthside operation. He’d be able to put at most 200,000 troops in the field now, an 80% reduction in his projected combat strength.

  He’d have to modify the plan. He’d originally intended to instigate war between the Powers on Earth, and release his million fully-armored clones at the right moment…defeating the battered land armies and seizing control of each Superpower in turn. He’d imagined it would be a damaged Earth he would rule over, but he’d hoped to preserve at least some of the existing infrastructure and productive capacity. But now he would have to make certain the Superpowers fought their war to the end, that their cities were pounded into radioactive dust, their armies locked in a death struggle until they’d savaged each other into oblivion. It would mean hundreds of millions more dead and the nearly total destruction of Earth’s civilization, but it was the only way he could be sure his reduced forces could take total control. And he wasn’t about to let anything interfere with his victory. He would have total power, no matter what it took. If he ruled a devastated, depopulated, irradiated world, so be it. Contamination could be cleaned up, rubble cleared away. Cities could be rebuilt and populations could be bred back to desired levels. And it would all be done under the watchful eyes of his clone soldiers.

  Indeed, though it would take longer and involve enormous work, there might be advantages to a fresh start of sorts. Old cities, the products of centuries of disorganized growth would be replaced by new metropolises, designed from the ground up…perfect models of modern urban magnificence. People, too, would get a fresh start of sorts. A controlled eugenics program might produce a more useful race of subjects than the current mix of genetically inferior Cogs, gutless middle class drones, and inbred political-class cronies. He would steward the creation of a super-race, smarter, more purposeful…and conditioned from birth for total obedience to the state. And the state would be Gavin Stark.

  It might take the rest of Stark’s natural life to see the rebuilding come to fruition, but what a monument to leave behind. And he would leave it to his own dynasty. Not the chaotic uncertainty of a series of conventional children and grandchildren. Nothing so random and variable. When all the resources and technology of mankind could no longer keep Stark’s body alive he would bequeath his power to himself…to the Gavin Stark clone whose rule would follow his.

  From the dawn of history man has raged against his own mortality. Great kings erected statues and built gargantuan mausoleums in misguided bids for eternal life. Others left behind historical and scientific achievements that insured their names would live on long after their bodies turned to dust. But Gavin Stark would achieve something orders of magnitude beyond what any historical conquerors or kings had imagined. Mankind would be ruled for eternity by a Stark clone. He would achieve true immortality…or the closest thing possible. In a thousand years…and in ten thousand…men would submit on bended knee to Gavin Stark. He would become like a god ruling over a galaxy of supplicants.

  He pulled himself back from his rambling thoughts. His normally rigid discipline had been failing him at times, and he had become prone to fits of anger and moments of wild imaginings. But now he forced himself to concentrate, to regain his focus. Humanity ruled by generation after generation of Stark clones was an appealing image, but first he had to succeed in his bid for power. He had to win this war.

  He sat quietly for a few minutes, honing his thoughts, working himself back into that cold emotionless state that had always made him such a successful operator. He’d have to readjust the plan for his intervention on Earth; that much was clear. He had time for that. His other bases seemed to be secure, and his people would maintain security protocols and wait for his word to move. But he had to speed up the timetable on Earth. He’d hoped to secure the Alliance colonies and finish off Garret’s fleet and the Marines before pushing the homeworld over the brink, but now he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He needed war on Earth, and he needed it now.

  Gavin Stark was a compulsive planner. His schemes had multiple layers and backups…just waiting for the moment they were needed. Like now. A tiny smile crept onto his lips. He might just be able to kill two birds with one stone…and give Roderick Vance a few distractions while he was at it.

  He nodded his head slowly as he reached out for the com controls and pressed a button. “Anderson-2…” – he’d kept the command clone as his direct aide – “…please prepare a Commnet transmission to Earth.” He took a deep breath. The more he thought about it, the more he was confident it was the right move. “I am activating Operation C6.”

  Gaston Lucerne stood on the quay, looking out at the turbulent waters of the Mediterranean. There was a storm rolling in, and the ships of Marseilles’ fishing fleet were hurrying back to port. The city had long drawn its economic strength from the sea, though for the last hundred years or more, it was the offshore algae fields and not the fishing boats that were the real engines of its economy. The middle class, and the worker classes – la Salete, as they were commonly called by the Classes Politiques, subsisted on manufactured foods, mostly created from pollution-resistant algae grown in the vast offshore farms. The Marseilles algae fields were the most productive in Europe, and the city exported the processed food precursor to finishing plants throughout Europa Federalis.

  The fleet plied a different trade, scouring the played out seas and searching through their meager catches, discarding most of the fish, the ones contaminated by the runaway pollution and mutated by the radioactives that had settled into the water. They searched diligently, looking for the few pure specimens that remained.

  Most prized were the Red Scorpionfish and the Sea Robin, prime ingredients in the ancient regional dish called Bouillabaisse. Originally a meal made by peasant fisherman, it was now a priceless delicacy, eaten only by the most privileged classes of politicians and corporate managers. The uncontaminated fresh seafood required to make a large batch cost enough to feed a Salete family for months.

  The fishermen plying the waters around Marseilles, scavenging for the remnants of a once rich bounty, lived a life different from most of the Saletes in Europa Federalis. Instead of a boring life of sustenance wages, theirs was a wild ride…bounty wh
en their fortunes were good, and deprivation and misery when they weren’t.

  Lucerne had been born into a family of fishermen, but he’d found a way to escape a life of hardship and poverty. As far as the Saletes of the Marseilles docks knew, he’d traveled throughout Europa Federalis as a seafood buyer, searching for rare catches to serve an elite market. But he had another job too, a considerably more lucrative one…working for Gavin Stark’s Alliance Intelligence. Lucerne found he had a talent for espionage, and no cumbersome loyalties to the Europan government to get in his way. He rose quickly to become one of Stark’s top agents in Europa Federalis…and ultimately one of the few operatives the Alliance spymaster recruited into his Shadow program.

  He walked slowly past the wharves, making his way to his ship. He’d returned to his old home with the cover that he’d lost his job and come back to eke out a living from the sea. He’d been on station for months, the steward of a single operation, going through the motions as a fisherman and waiting for the word from Stark to act.

  Finally, that word came. He’d gotten his orders…and confirmed the authorization codes. Operation C6 was a go. He’d had the equipment in place for months, just waiting for him to enter the final arming codes. Now, Lucerne had done the deed. All he had to do was get back to his boat and get out of Marseilles…while there still was a Marseilles.

  He walked past the bulk of one of the larger vessels, and Mouette came into view. She was a wreck, or at least she looked that way to the casual observer. Just the kind of ship a destitute fisherman might lease. There was more to her than met the eye, though…high-powered motors, AI-controlled nav system, and enough hidden firepower to sink the rest of Marseilles’ fishing fleet.